


love please don’t leave me evermore

by grandilloquism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, R/S Games 2017, post-halloween 1981
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandilloquism/pseuds/grandilloquism
Summary: R/S Games 2017 - Day 20 - Team RemusSirius comes home after Halloween 1981; he’s only three months late.





	love please don’t leave me evermore

**Author's Note:**

> **Team:** Remus  
>  **Title:** love please don’t leave me evermore  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Warnings:** Non-graphic mentions of violent death and (magical) torture. Disordered eating, descriptions of food and eating. Brief (magical) self-harm.  
>  **Genres:** AU and ??? ?? ….Angst????  
>  **Word Count:** 5000  
>  **Summary:** Sirius comes home after Halloween 1981; he’s only three months late.  
>  **Notes:** Title is from the Brown Bird song Severed Soul.  
>  **Prompt:** #6 - "The flocks head north and the lilacs bloom  
>  At night they scent my moonlit room  
> You were my spring, my summer too  
> I'm going north to look for you"  
> \- from the song "North" by Joan Baez

Remus had endured three days of people acting gently towards him. Moody’s brusque, “Take a seat, Lupin,” as he came through the Floo to Dumbledore’s office was a relief. The office was empty of Dumbledore himself, though Fawkes was at his normal perch by the door, gently snoozing with his head tucked under a wing. Moody sat at a chair by the fire and the expectation was obvious that Remus take the seat across.

He obliged. “Is Dumbledore joining us?” he asked.

Moody’s magical eye rolled in its socket. “Albus was good enough to set up the meeting, but he hasn’t planned on joining us.”

Remus shifted in his seat. “In that case, may I ask why we’re here?”

The various magical sundry that lined the shelves clicked and whizzed, and puffed multi-hued smoke as Moody took his time answering. “Prying ears, Lupin.” For an unsettling moment, both of Moody’s eyes came to focus on Remus, before the left went spinning away once more. “I’ve come to an inconvenient conclusion. Answered a question with an answer that poses more questions. Not something the Ministry is looking for, if I’m honest.”

Remus was leaning forward in his seat.

“They’re not giving him a trial, you know. Not that’d it’d mean all that much—trials haven’t, lately. And it’s not as if he has much influence, these days, is it?” Moody ticked off points on his fingers, “Disinherited, no family connections, no political alliances ready to step in for him.”

He said nothing, watching as Moody leaned back in his chair and took up the snifter that had been sitting on the table beside him, half-full with some amber liquid.

“Crouch wants the case closed, but I’m recommending a trial to the Council of Magical Law, citing contradictory evidence.”

Remus’ hands were shaking. He felt queasy. No one had spoken a word about Sirius’ possible innocence; the evidence had seemed so cut and dry. Whatever hope Remus had held out at first had been ruthlessly crushed beneath the facts. But something had begun to rekindle with him. “I— “ he cleared his throat. “Moody— “

“Save it boy. Getting to trial won’t take much from us. There’s steps they must follow, now that I’ve stuck my nose in. Much as Crouch may want, he can’t lock Black away without calling in the Council to hear evidence. It’s going to be who’s there, and what they choose to hear that decides this.”

Remus shook his head. He wasn’t ready to think so far ahead. “Who?” he asked. “If not Sirius? Who else? He was the only one who knew…?” he trailed off.

Moody caught Remus’ eye. “Who else was there, Lupin? On that street when those muggles died? Who else might the Potter’s have trusted with their hiding place?”

“Peter?” Remus asked. “But he died—“ Sirius killed him, he couldn’t say.     

“Did he?” Moody asked. “Not much found of Peter Pettigrew. Curious, isn’t it? No one caught in that blast left so few remains as Mr. Pettigrew.”

Remus swallowed. “But if the blast was focused on Peter?” He couldn’t. Remus could not afford to believe, only to have it crumble down around him.

“Black and Pettigrew were on opposite sides of the street, about five yards apart. There were two muggles on Black’s left, walking side by side. The one closest to the street, to Pettigrew, is dead, the woman walking on her right was unharmed. That gives us a very definite range of effect. Pettigrew’s side of the street took the most damage, ten muggles all told, and Pettigrew himself.

“This is where things get technical, boy. Big offensive spells like this, their area of effect comes in two types: cones and spheres. From Black’s position, looking at the pattern of those affected, the curse cast would have needed a large, conic affect to hit both Pettigrew and the muggles on his left. However— “ and Moody paused to summon parchment from Dumbledore’s desk. He took a self-inking quill from inside his robes and with very little hesitation drew thirteen X’s on the paper, and then several O’s. One of these he labelled ‘Black,’ and the X across from him was ‘Pettigrew.’

“If we draw a cone originating from Black, with its furthest effect on his left splitting neatly between the two women on his side of the street, and on his right between Pettigrew and the closest muggle unaffected,” Moody drew these lines and handed the paper to Remus. “Do you see the problem?”

Remus studied the diagram, uncomprehending. His focus was beyond this room, spinning off into thoughts he had considered the height of masochism not twenty minutes before.

“Connect the ends, Lupin,” Moody chided.

Remus did so, or he tried. The end of the cone should have been gently rounded, in order to fit the pattern of death, but when Remus followed the path of living and dead with his finger he came to a sudden, jarring stop.

“These people,” he tapped them, 2 O’s standing at an angle to each other, behind Peter and within the area of effect. “They’re alive?”

“Right as rain,” Moody said. “Not a scratch on them.”

Remus tried again, attempting to find a shape originating from Sirius that would have taken down all thirteen victims. He couldn’t.

“Now,” Moody took the paper back from him, and this time drew two lines branching out from Peter. He connected the ends himself, a sweeping curve that encompassed neatly all 12 muggles. “Perfect fit, isn’t it?”

Remus looked down at the paper, his heart was pounding. “And if the spell was cast as a sphere?”

“Asking the important questions, boy.” He took up the quill again. “The epicentre would have been here, near where the street split open,” he marked this spot with an arrow. “Following the line of casualty that would give it a fifteen-meter radius.” He drew eight lines out from the arrow, then connected them into a neat circle that included all the affected muggles, and left Peter free of the blast.

Moody looked up at Remus. “So, if we’ve proven at the very least that Peter Pettigrew cannot have been killed by any curse Sirius Black might have cast, and that the only piece of him on the scene was a single finger, and that he has presented himself neither to hospital, nor the authorities, what may we conclude?”

“He’s in hiding.” Remus couldn’t take his eyes off the paper, off Moody’s decisive pen strokes. “He was James and Lily’s Secret Keeper. He betrayed them; he was the spy.” These thoughts came running off his tongue, eager to see the light.

“We have two jobs here now,” Moody said. “We need to find Pettigrew and we need to present enough evidence to exonerate Black. That second part breaks down into a few steps. We need influence, and we’ll need the Council on our side.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Find friends, Lupin. Allies. People willing to testify on Black’s behalf, people they can’t dismiss. I’ll have my aurors looking for Pettigrew, we have to hope that we can turn up some sign of him before the Council convenes.”

Remus pressed fingers into his temples. “He’s an animagus,” he said. “He can turn into a rat—sandy coloured, no particular markings. Missing a finger, now, I’d imagine.”

“Pettigrew’s an unregistered animagus?”

There were very few people left that this secret could harm, “James and Sirius, too. You know what I am,” it wasn’t a question, Remus had done months of work among the werewolves, if not bringing them to the Light, at least keeping them from fighting for the Dark.

Moody nodded and he explained, in brief words, the benefits of his friend’s animal forms.

“This is a lead, Lupin. There’s a great many places a rat can go that man can’t, and now we know to look— “ Moody had a faraway look to his eye. “We have work to do.” Moody stood and Remus followed his lead, pushing up from the chair. “You have a plan?” he asked.

There was a roiling, writhing need to move in Remus now. “I know where I’m going from here.”

“Good lad. The Floo’s open to you, wherever you need to go.”

“I won’t need it just yet,” he said, and left Dumbledore’s office for the stairs down into the castle.

 

***

 

He did not walk unnoticed through the halls of Hogwarts. He looked ragged, in his old muggle clothes and his unwashed hair, and he drew stares as he left the staircase to the Headmaster’s office. No one stopped him, though he saw the portraits whisper behind their hands as he passed their frames.

McGonagall was in her office. He knocked on her cracked door and smiled wanly when her eyes flew wide at the sight of him.

“Can I have a word, Professor?”

She rose to her feet. “Remus, what on Earth?” She took two long strides across her office to clutch him by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and hugged him, warm but brisk, and ushered him in to take a seat.

“Thank you,” he said, watching as she set about pouring tea for the both of them. “I’ve just come from speaking with Moody.”

“With Alastor,” she said, retaking her seat. “With regards to,” she paused briefly, “recent events?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “There’s compelling evidence to suggest that it was Peter, not Sirius, that killed those muggles. That he was You-Know-Who’s spy.”

McGonagall’s face blanched pale. “What evidence?” she asked.

“It’s the spell vectors. Moody seemed sure of his arithmancy, he’s willing to testify as much to Crouch and the Council.”

McGonagall’s hands were shaking. “Gods above. We’re going to have a hell of a time convincing the Council, they’ve all but executed the boy. He’s been pilloried in all the papers, not that anyone knew any better. We all thought—“ she cut herself off. There was moisture brimming in her eyes. “Oh, Remus. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

He had spent so long not telling her. The goal for so long had been to never let anyone know. “Peter’s an animagus,” he said. “James and Sirius, too. Since our fifth year.”

He could see he had shocked her. Her expression went slack, then twisted with a shadow of the old amused exasperation he had known so well in his school days. “I have to say, Remus, if I had to choose any group of students who might be thick-headed enough to become unregistered animagi right under my nose, your little band of wretched miscreants wouldn’t be the last, by any means. It has all the hallmarks of a James and Sirius plan. It was a lark of theirs, I take it?”

Remus shook his head. “Their own self-satisfaction didn’t hurt, but it was for me. I couldn’t hurt them as animals.” When her brow furrowed, he added, “When I was transformed.”

She pushed her spectacles back, pinching her nose with thumb and forefinger. “A more sentimental group of idiots I’ve never known. I suppose they knew with complete certainty that a werewolf’s bite doesn’t alter transformed animagi? There’s no research I’ve ever seen on it.”

“No, Professor,” he conceded. “There’s some anecdotal evidence from the seventeenth century, but nothing anyone might hold up as conclusive.”

She sighed through her nose, letting her glasses fall back into place. “I suppose there’s nothing to do for it now.”

“Not quite,” Remus said. “I can’t imagine it will go unremarked upon at trial. I was hoping you might testify on Sirius’ behalf?” his voice wavered.

McGonagall’s expression was soft. “Of course I will, Remus.” She placed her hand over his on the desk. “I’ll even sponsor the wretched boy. He can be a _registered_ animagus, when he’s released.”

Remus held tightly to her hand. “Thank you.”

 

***

 

He went home. The cat needed feeding, and there were dishes in the sink. He did these small chores, then wiped down the counter and made the bed. When had he last eaten? He put eggs on to boil then filled and drained three consecutive glasses of water, letting it spill down his face and neck as he drank. He hadn’t noticed the headache until some of the tension eased.

He opened the windows. The air was chill but sweet with the last struggling remains of summer honeysuckle, and the wood violets Sirius had begun to baby ever since the nights turned cold.

The house was nowhere, really—on the side of a hill bordering a sheep pasture, with a garden that gave way to a sparse wood that became abruptly impenetrable sooner than one might think. If there was a road that led there, Remus didn’t know of it. He had found the listing in the Prophet, which had described it as ‘ _Private Country Residence, unplottable, exact location unknown. 50galleon/monthly.’_

The previous occupant, Remus was given to understand, was his landlord’s great-grandmother’s second husband’s spinster sister, who had passed unexpectedly some 20 years ago, and without telling anyone where in Britain the two-room cottage had actually been built.

Remus had lived there for nearly two years and he was content to leave it a mystery. It suited his needs exactly, and the witch he was renting it from had made it clear at signing that she didn’t much care what happened to the property, and would be best pleased if she never had to set foot in it again.

He peeled and ate his eggs over the sink, then followed it up with an elderly apple and the stale remains of a packet of biscuits Remus didn’t remember buying. Sirius’ doing, possibly, though he had his own flat to keep biscuits in.

He closed the windows as the sun set, taking any warmth remaining from the day along with it, and went to his desk, taking up quill and paper.

He drafted two letters and sent one, copying it out on thick parchment in his best handwriting. He sealed it with a pool of dark wax and pressed a stamp to it, leaving the impression of an ivy leaf and a flowering spray of dogwood. He dithered over it, moving it from the desk to the counter and back before he finally called Galega in and attached it to her.

“Wait for a reply,” he told her, preening the soft brown feathers at her neck. She chirruped back, then left out the open window.

The second letter he lingered over, though he knew it might never be sent.

 

_Sirius,_

_I had the news from Moody, just hours ago. I wish I could say I had known, or that I had hoped, but we both know how little of that there’s been to go around. I’ll make it up to you._

_Your violets are still in bloom. I’ve had the windows open and the house smells like green and sweet. I’ll go by your flat and get Astra tomorrow, if they’ll let me._

_Moody’s searching for Peter. When we’re clear of this we’ll have to think of something to thank him. McGonagall, too. I spoke to her earlier, and she’s agreed to speak to the Council on your behalf._

_Sirius, I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll see you soon._

_-Remus_

_***_

He woke early the next morning. There was a thin rain coming down and a blue fog clinging to the earth. Galega was waiting for him, and the sight of the letter she had brought with her sent a cold shock of dread through him.

The envelope was black, the thin, elegant script that addressed it to him was white. There were flower petals in the sealing wax, partially obscuring the impression of three stars in an ouroboros. The paper it held was also black, embossed at the edges in gold, and contained two flowing white sentences.

 

_Mr. Lupin,_

_I believe we have matters to discuss. If you call at ten this morning you will find me at home._

_Regards, Walburga Black_

                  He swallowed, reading the lines again, and then once more. He had work to do.

 

***

 

Remus apparated on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place at 9:59. He took a moment to take it in, the pattern of stonework, the flowering vines at the gate, the grotesques that peered down at the street from the gables: carved serpents with open, hissing mouths.

He rapped the knocker against the door and clenched his hand against the sting of the silver plating. How many things in this grand and beautiful home would be poisonous for him to touch?

Only a moment passed before the door swung open. A house elf bowed low to him, ushering him in the door.

“I’m here to see Madam Black,” he told it, handing over his cloak and brushing down the front of his robes self-consciously.

“Yes, sir,” it said in a low, croaking voice. “Mistress is expecting you. This way, sir.” The elf led him past a wide, sweeping staircase, down a corridor of flocked wallpaper and staring portraits, to a parlour at the back of the house.

Walburga Black stood in the middle of the room, straight-backed, her expression guarded. She was a tall, thin woman, late in her fifties, with olive gold skin and silver-streaked hair worn in a braid like a shining black crown. There were jewels placed there, small silver laurel leaves studded with pearls and jet, as well as at her ears and throat. She wore robes of the purest, darkest black, long and billowing, save for the rows of pearl buttons that held the fabric close to her forearms, and to her waist.

She looked much as Remus had remembered from his few, chance sightings, cold and implacable. “Madam Black,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you for seeing me.”

She regarded him. Taking him in from the part in his hair to the shine of his shoes. “Remus Lupin,” she said. “Well met.” Her voice was soft, melodic. It invited you to come closer, to listen more intently. She gestured him to a seat as she took her own, so they faced each other over a low table set with a tea service.

“I was glad to receive your invitation,” he said, attempting to sit comfortably in the unfamiliar robes he had forced himself into for this meeting.

“I was glad to receive your letter,” she shot back, quick but pleasant. “You have presented a resolution to a situation I had thought beyond repair.”

He wondered if she meant her estrangement from her son, or Sirius’ imprisonment, though he supposed it didn’t matter, as Sirius’ situation would benefit from either goal on her part. She poured tea for the both of them and gestured for Remus to help himself. Though the cups themselves were unadorned china, the trays and utensils were, if not solid silver, at least silver-plated. He avoided these, leaving his tea black, and selected a scone from the tray with his serviette.

“May I ask what caused you to reach out to me?” Walburga hadn’t touched her tea, her hands were clasped neatly in her lap.

Remus forced himself to make eye contact. “You seemed my best hope,” he said, honestly. “Sirius’ best hope, whether he thanks you for it or not. He needs people on his side. The Council isn’t unbiased, their votes can be led by popular opinion. We need the whole story to get out, to spread as fast as possible, to cast as much doubt on the perceived order of events as possible.”

Walburga nodded. Remus found it difficult to look at her. The resemblance was not insignificant, but even more it was something in the eyes, in the graceful way she moved her hands as she spoke. “You need my influence, very well. I’m willing to lend it. In fact, we can help each other. You’ll be unsurprised to know that the Black name no longer carries as far, in certain circles. Our association is of mutual benefit.”

He supposed it was naïve of him to assume Walburga might wish to help her son without anything in return. “What do you wish in recompense?”

“Only the benefits rewarded naturally for lending aid to an ally of Dumbledore. It is a new age, Mr Lupin, surely you’ve noticed?” Her eyebrows moved upward. Her expression wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp and slightly mocking. “If my options are sacrificing my family’s legacy on the altar of an outdated ideology, or propping us up on the forefront of something new, Mr Lupin if it means there will be a Black living in a hundred years I will do it.”

“You’re relying on Sirius to produce heirs?”

“The Potters are dead, Mr Lupin. Unless I’m mistaken, Sirius is Harry Potter’s godfather, in which case, my son has an heir, and the Blacks have an immutable hold on the world’s future.”

Remus was beginning to see red. “You disowned Sirius, you cast him out, abandoned him because he was on the wrong side of a war, and now you’re taking it back, just like that? Like it was nothing?”

Walburga’s face clouded over, her expression turning stony. “Tell me how this isn’t the best possible outcome for you, Mr Lupin?” Her voice was sharp, venomous. “That you weren’t praying for this the moment you decided to send that letter? I take my son back, I exert what influence I have held onto with my _nails_  and _teeth_ , these last ten years, and he finds himself walking once more among free men. Able to take back up with you, Mr Lupin, to raise your dead friend’s son, to enjoy all the benefit of choosing the right side of a war. I ask _nothing_ , I get _nothing_  from this, but what comes naturally from a public change in political affiliation. Which in this case means smiles to my face, a willingness to accept my money for the philanthropic cause _du jour_ , and a readied dagger at my back, waiting for any opportunity.”

Remus picked up the spoon by his plate. It burned like acid in his hands. He played it between his fingers and watched where it touched as it went white, then flushed red. He set it down after a moment, gritting his teeth. “This serves no purpose,” he said. “I apologise. I’ve had a difficult week.”

She nodded her head. If her change from amiable to vicious had been quick, the reverse was almost instantaneous. Once again her voice was smooth and level, “I understand. I offer you my apology, as well.”

“Alright,” Remus said. “In that case, let me tell you what I was thinking.”

 

***

 

Remus left Grimmauld Place with a feeling like his ribs had been cracked open and peeled back, and his insides were exposed for all to see. His hands stung from silver, and his head hurt from gritting his teeth. But he was a step further than he had been.

 

***

 

A week passed, and another, Autumn gave way to Winter. November became December, then January. Remus was turned away from the gates of Azkaban sixteen times. He would need dispensation from the Ministry to visit Sirius, but he couldn’t stop himself from going. Moody found him work as a researcher for the DMLE, which kept his bills paid and gave him an excuse to haunt the halls of the Aurory.

His days fell into a routine. He woke early most mornings, going over the papers meticulously for any news of Sirius, or Peter, or any forward movement in the judiciary trials. It was few and far between, but more and more he saw society pieces that mentioned Walburga, often with little asides that varied between gossip mongering and sanctimonious in reference to Sirius. Remus was grateful for each and every one. He spent his days in London, attempting to draw the least possible amount of attention. The Ministry was in upheaval, frantically reordering in the wake of Voldemort’s defeat, but that would only last so long. Remus’ days as a Ministry employee were numbered, but he was being careful to use them to greatest advantage.

The comfortable monotony came to an end the last week of January, when, much like many mornings before it, a Daily Prophet owl scratched at the sill until he let it in. Bleary-eyed, he took the paper from the bird and sent it on its way.

He yawned, stretching, already planning out his day and the things he would need to get done. He glanced down at the paper, scanning the headlines, and froze. _CONFESSED DEATH EATERS ARRESTED, PETER PETTIGREW AMONG THEM._ A jolt went through him, leaving behind a trembling energy. His hands were shaking; he felt nauseous.

He threw the blankets off, startling the cat. He pulled a jumper over his head and tucked his nightshirt into a pair of corduroys. He grabbed the first two socks he could find on the floor and pulled his trainers on over them. He was ready, but where to? He took his chances and threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fire, stepping in behind it, he called, “Ministry of Magic, London,” and spun off.

It was too early for the Ministry fireplaces to be busy. He came through without issue and spent a moment dithering in the atrium. Would Moody be in his office? Was there anything Remus could do if he wasn’t? He headed that direction.

The lift was cruel torture. He tapped his foot as it descended, stopping at each level to allow the paper memos to come and go. There was a handful of people already at their desks in the Auror pen, Remus rushed past them to Moody’s office. The door was cracked open, and a sliver of warm light spilled out of it, slicing across the dim corridor. Remus rapped his knuckles across the wood.

“News travels fast,” Moody called out, and Remus took it as bid to enter.

“I just heard,” he said, pushing through the door and standing before Moody’s desk. “It’s true?”

“Oh, aye,” Moody confirmed, “we arrested Pettigrew in the small hours this morning. He’s being held downstairs, now, awaiting transport to Azkaban.” He gave Remus a long look, then glanced down at his hands. “There’s more.”

Remus’ knuckles went white as he clenched his fists. “More?” he prompted, when Moody seemed reluctant to continue.

“Pettigrew was brought in with the Lestrange’s—Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Bellatrix, and with Barty Crouch, Jr.”

Remus could barely process what he was hearing. The Lestrange’s seemed natural enough, it had been only their money and still surviving connections that had eased things along for them when suspicion had fallen on their doorstep last autumn. But Barty Crouch? Bartemius Crouch, Sr was the Senior Minister on the Council of Magical Law. He had been the driving force behind granting aurors use of lethal force during the War; his rise through the Ministry had been meteoric. Smart bets were on Crouch to become the next Minister for Magic. “With Barty Crouch,” he repeated.

“The Lestrange’s, Pettigrew, and Crouch,” Moody said. “My aurors arrested them at the Longbottom house.” Cold dread gripped Remus’ spine, freezing him in place. “Frank and Alice, Lupin,” Moody shook his head, “they’re in hospital, now. Last I heard, the Healers aren’t too sure what can be done.”

“What happened?” His voice was low, hoarse. He had thought this was over. He had thought this sort of horror had been left behind.

“The Lestrange’s were looking for information. They were willing to Crucio the Longbottom’s until they got it, and when it became clear Frank and Alice had nothing to give them, they kept going.”

Remus was going to be ill. “Their son?” he asked. “Neville. He’s OK?”

“With his gran,” Moody assured him. “Safe as houses.” Moody cleared his throat. “Circumstances being what they are, Pettigrew is giving a full confession. I’ve recommended that Black be released immediately, and Crouch is in no position now to oppose. There’s paperwork to handle, but we should have Black out of Azkaban before the day’s end.”

Remus’ spine straightened. “What?”

A shadow of a smile crossed Moody’s face. “You’re early, Lupin, but Madam Black beat you to it. She’s up in Minister Bagnold’s office now. Seems she had some strings to pull.”

“Walburga Black is in the Minister’s office?” Remus checked his wristwatch before remembering it was still sat on his nightstand. The clock on Moody’s wall read just after 5:00.

“She must have a source with the Prophet,” Moody said. “They caught scent of it through St Mungo’s last night, and Walburga, bold as anything, came walking in about an hour ago, demanding to speak with the Minister.”

“They’re releasing Sirius?” Remus’ life had not left him with an eternal wellspring of hope, but just then he felt something bubbling over inside him.

“Black and Bagnold were calling for tea when I left them; seems they had the matter settled.”

There were tears in Remus’ eyes. Peter Pettigrew had been arrested, he had confessed. Walburga Black was sitting down to tea with the Minister for Magic. The Prophet had run a story in which they had not included the snide, parenthetical title of _mass murderer_ to the end of Sirius’ name. He had done these things. This had been his work that made it possible. And Sirius was coming home.

Sirius was coming home.


End file.
